


danger (the drug that takes you higher)

by travelling_outside_karma



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Billy Hargrove, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Experiment Billy Hargrove, Future Fic, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 03, Scars, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travelling_outside_karma/pseuds/travelling_outside_karma
Summary: Seven years after the battle of starcourt, Billy roams the streets of Chicago fighting crime. Hiding from his past abusers and trying to atone for his past mistakes, an encounter with someone from Hawkins forces Billy to face his demons.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This concept has been calling out to me to write it since I finished watching S3, so here it is.
> 
> Title from U2's _So Cruel._

**Prologue**

**_Hawkins, Indiana — July 4th, 1985_ **

In the aftermath, Starcourt Mall is overtaken by a swarm of soldiers. The uniformed men come into the mall, they come in and then come back out again with more uniformed men in handcuffs.

They’re dressed head to toe in camouflage, but they don’t blend into the bright colours and flashing lights of the mall.

Amongst the chaos and confusion, it’s easy to miss a man in a white coat come in with a small girl by his side. They stop beside the body on the ground, the boy who’s mostly dead. It’s easy to miss one voice in all the commotion — “It’s time. _Now,_ Fourteen.”

The girl lays her hands on a blood-soaked chest, and the noise of the mall fades to a hum as the tips of her fingers light up with an energy strong enough to knit together flesh.

The boy doesn’t understand, can’t grasp anything but the feeling of his skin pulling, _pulling,_ melding together. Pain on top of existing pain until it dissipates into numbness. He takes a breath, can feel the oxygen return to his body.

The man in the white coat lifts the boy into his arms, and it’s easy to miss them as they disappear through the exit at the back of the mall.

**_Chicago, Illinois — May 24th, 1992_ **

_“Fuck,”_ He hisses as he pulls the black sweatshirt over his head, the fabric brushing against the cut on the side of his torso as he takes it off. He scrambles to open the first aid kit, kept handy for times like these. Fingers tremble as he cleans the wound as quickly as possible before covering it with several layers of gauze. With one hand putting pressure over the gauze to help stop the bleeding, he takes in a shuddering breath.

Lifting his head up to meet his own gaze in the mirror, he takes in his own reflection and fights his instinct to immediately look away. There’s a galaxy of bruising over his ribs and chest. It’ll fade with time, but the assortment of scars he’s collected over the years will stay with him. The blemishes that mark his body tell a thousand stories - some at the hands of a cruel father, some are souvenirs from the horrors of a world beyond their own. Then there’s the remains of fights with men who came away with more damage than the scars they left on him.

He scowls at the most recent addition to the collection — he could’ve avoided it if he’d been faster, smarter, less careless. The knife the guy had pulled took him by surprise and he didn’t dodge it quick enough.

He used to be attractive, wanted, desired. That person feels so distant now. There’s a scar marring his right cheekbone, once black with oozing goo, now permanently an angry red. It’s an ugly thing, forever reminding him of that day — the last time he was in Hawkins.

His reflection in the mirror looks tired, pale, empty. Like there’s no-one inhabiting his skin, just a ghost of a man who was once somebody. He doesn’t recognise himself anymore.

_“Who are you, Hargrove?”_

The stranger in the mirror doesn’t answer him.


	2. don't turn around, and don't look back

**_Brenner’s Lab, Indiana — July 19th, 1985._ **

Billy doesn’t recognise the hospital room, it looks nothing like Hawkins General, doesn’t recognise any of the doctors who come in and out. He drifts in and out of consciousness, hears parts of conversations that he can’t piece together.

“He’s responding well to treatment. We can expect a full recovery over the next two weeks.”

He can’t find the strength to ask whether that means they’ll stop poking and prodding him, stop with the needles anytime soon. Whether that means he’ll be out of here soon, whether he’ll be able to see Max soon. _Harrington_. Or that girl— El? He’d be overjoyed even to see Susan, just _someone_ familiar.

“Wonderful news. Time to begin stage two.”

He lifts his eyelids just enough to see a man in a white coat with a needle coming towards him. _No, not again,_ he wants to shout. But his mouth is too dry, throat too tight.

It takes effect quickly, and Billy is lulled back into unconsciousness.

**_Chicago, Illinois — May 28th, 1992_ **

Billy pulls the ever-familiar mask over his face, a black hood with only a few holes for his eyes and mouth. It’s just precautionary, really. If _those_ people were ever to find him again, he’ll get to them first. He’ll be ready.

The shadows of looming buildings keep him hidden out of sight as he follows his usual route, looking out for evil to show its face. He’s better, stronger than he ever was before — practiced in combat. Maybe, just _maybe,_ restoring justice to the streets of Chicago will make up for his past.

The last few nights have been pretty uneventful, which has given Billy time to heal after his recent encounter with a knifed criminal. But there’ll be more crime, he knows. Chicago is just like every other city he’s lived in over the past five years. Detroit, Rockford, St. Louis — he never stays in one place too long. The police don’t take too kindly to people taking justice into their own hands, and he won’t risk anyone finding out how he spends his nights. Not the cops, or worse, the scientists in white coats.

Billy begins to wonder if tonight will be another quiet night, but that thought leaves immediately when a shout resounds from an alleyway up ahead. The rush of adrenaline through his body is welcome, the anticipation of a fight already urging Billy forward. He stays out of sight, assesses the situation from the relative safety of a brick wall.

There’s a group of guys— six, maybe seven of them— focused on whoever they’ve got surrounded in the middle of their circle. Billy can’t see who it is at the centre, fears he might be too late already. He’s ready to step in, reaching for the blade he keeps secured at his hip, until a sight makes him pause. One of the men falls to the ground, and quickly follows one more, creating a gap in the ring of men where Billy now can see the person who took them out. They’re not dressed to fight— bright pink jacket and tight acid washed jeans— whoever it is, they stand out like a sore thumb.

The guy at the centre is quick, light on his feet. Billy watches him in awe as he dodges every fist thrown at him. His technique is good— not as good as Billy, but he’s definitely an experienced fighter. He hasn’t got any weapons, Billy observes, the guy manages to take down two more of his attackers with his bare hands. Only three remaining. He turns to one of them, twists in a lightning-fast manoeuvre to avoid a punch before throwing his own. It’s captivating.

Billy doesn’t notice one of the assailants pull out a gun until it’s too late.

Time seems to slow down as the gunshot resounds. Billy steps out, reaches out, there’s not enough time to warn him—

The ringing in his ears grows louder, a vibration of energy runs through his outstretched arm. The bullet changes its trajectory just a fraction.

Just a fraction, but it might be enough to save a life. Instead of piercing through his abdomen, the bullet skims the side of the man, hopefully it’s a surface wound.

Billy doesn’t have time to dwell on it, not yet, not when there are still three attackers and one is still armed with a gun.

The element of surprise is on his side as he goes for the one with the gun first, grabs him from behind and wrestles it out of a loose grip. With the hold he has around the guy’s upper body, he flips him onto the ground with a thud. He disables the gun as quickly as possible, lets the bullets fall to the concrete and scatter on the ground, then throws the weapon far behind him. The next assailant bolts towards him, but Billy ducks smoothly out of the way before he can get a hold of him. Billy aims a fist towards the second man. It collides with a snap of bone he knows will be a broken nose. One more.

A grin breaks out on his face as he turns to the last man standing. Billy’s always loved a good fight.

Billy knows what he’s capable of, knows his limits, knows how to bring someone to the ground without going too far. He won’t be the cause of any more lives lost. He knows just the points to aim for — and he executes it perfectly with the final attacker. 

With impending danger out of the way — for now — he wipes away the blood slowly dripping from his nose and kneels down beside the guy in the pink jacket to find out the extent of his injuries. “Hey, are you alright?” Billy asks, voice rough from lack of use.

He doesn’t respond beyond a soft groan, but at least he’s somewhat conscious. His face is turned away, tucked into the curve of one arm, the other draped over his wounded side. Billy pulls up the bright pink fabric to examine the wound and lets out a sigh of relief at seeing it’s not _too_ serious. Clean it, stop the bleeding, patch it up — he’ll be fine.

He’d be _fine,_ but.

Billy’s first aid kit is back in his apartment two blocks away. He can’t just leave this wounded man here with his attackers, who look like they might be ready for round two any minute now.

“C’mon, let’s get you out here,” Billy grabs hold of the guy’s arms, starts to pull him up. With his arms out of the way, Billy can see his face, and—

_“Harrington?”_

__

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr [@pan-shego](https://pan-shego.tumblr.com) ♥


End file.
